


Firenze, 1534

by zetaophiuchi (ryuujitsu)



Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Renaissance, Bipolar Disorder, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Crossdressing, Duelling, Every Type of Dagger, M/M, Marginalia - Freeform, Masks, Nuns, Pining, Secret Identity, Sprezzatura, Swordfighting, Swords, Unreliable Narrator, Work In Progress, rapiers, sabers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 09:16:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19885231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryuujitsu/pseuds/zetaophiuchi
Summary: Florence, 1534. Luca Tedesco, beloved only son of the Tedeschi of Florence and swordsman extraordinaire, falls in love with a mysterious masked duelist.A 16th century Italian AU of what is essentially already a 2019 French AU of a 2015 Norwegian show.





	Firenze, 1534

**Author's Note:**

> This story came to me while I was in line at the grocery store daydreaming about sharp cheddar. I have no further explanation. I hope only that you enjoy it.
> 
> Many thanks to C, who provided expert consulting on the art of dueling (modern, Olympic, and Italian Renaissance), and of course to [FLWhite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FLWhite/pseuds/FLWhite), my co-conspirator, costume researcher, and egger-on extraordinaire.

~*~

|  |   
---|---|---  
  
Luca Tedesco, beloved only son of the Tedeschi of Florence, that wealthy merchant house, was a disappointment to his parents. He cared little for the management of the Tedeschi mercantile kingdom, littler still for the intricacies of the Florentine politics through which Papa Tedeschi endeavored to thread and anchor his family’s fortunes. Of Mama Tedeschi’s love of the Church, he concerned himself not a whit; indeed, he blasphemed early, happily, and often. Every part of his mind, body, and eternal soul, he dedicated to the gentlemanly art of dueling.

|  |   
  
Blond and blue-eyed like every man’s vision of the Madonna, he was beautiful but small for his age, and that is why he grew to be such a choleric devil, his temperament, doing what his body could not, expanding into ferocity. The shadow he cast loomed large. In everyone’s mouths was the name Tedesco, and in all of our eyes we saw the gleam of his sword like the bright point of the North Star.

|  | 

**BRO**

**Luca's gonna stab you**  
  
In short, he was infamous: a scoundrel, a villain; there was no one in Florence whom he had not fought or fucked, or so it was said. Save one.

|  | 

**seriously you're a dead man walking**  
  
In any case, that is our Luca, and here is his tale.

|  | 

He wouldn't. He loves me!  
  
~*~

|  | 

Your funeral.  
  
If you asked, Yann Cazas would tell you he was the son of humble tailors, and perhaps you would believe him, but if you pressed, he would say he was the grandson of a certain cloth merchant, and that would be close enough to the truth that you would be satisfied, but in fact—I will tell you the secret—he was the heir to a Moorish fortune the coffers of Florence could not hold, the descendant of inventors who had dedicated themselves solely to the sartorial sciences, and by whose study and innovation we now have the privilege of parading ourselves about in slashed velvets and silks and profusions of lace and shimmering cloaks woven from fibers dyed the exact mystical hues of midnight, that magical hour, where the sky is neither black nor blue nor violet but hung with so many millions of stars like pinpricks. The family of Cazas comes to us from Aswan by way of Spanish Cordoba; they have dressed, in their time, kings and sultans. They are the reason we noble Florentines all look so stylish, and Yann Cazas, truest, most fashionable of men, is the reason Luca Tedesco wore on this fateful day such an eye-catching suit of blue, tied with ribbons the color of the summer sky.

|  |   
  
The sky that day, however, belonged to early spring, and it was gray, not blue, with the overhanging threat of rain, and dim, too, with dusk and the impending night. But the suit was eye-catching, as I said, and it caught the eye of a man who must for the moment remain nameless.

|  |   
  
It was, as Luca recounted later to Yann, who was his best friend and trusted second, in explanation for his odd behavior of late, a chance encounter. A meeting of the eyes on an empty street.

|  |   
  
Luca, who had been prowling the Borgo Santi Apostoli looking for a fight, now found that the fight had come to him in the form of a pair of dusty black shoes and black hose that barred his way. Craning his neck, his thumb already itching toward his hilt, he saw that the unknown man was tall beneath the bulk of a travel-worn brown cloak, every part of his face concealed save a pair of icy blue eyes, which looked upon Luca with a slow and lazy insolence, flicking down, then up, tracking Luca’s finery from head to toe.

|  | 

I'm not sure it was his hilt his thumb was itching toward. Ha ha ha.

**watch out Luca's gonna stab you too**  
  
Luca had fought men before over errant stares. He had fought a man over a raised brow directed at one of his hats, which had been fashioned by none other than Manon de Missy, a milliner of considerable repute among certain circles. And who was this stranger muffled to the ears in his exceedingly dull brown cloak, Luca exclaimed to Yann, splattering the table with wine, to judge?

|  |   
  
“Luca, you didn’t,” groaned Yann, who had also once fought a man over a hat, and another over a scarf.

|  | 

**& rightly so**  
  
“Oh, but I did,” Luca said. “I told him exactly what I thought of his fucking rags.”

|  | 

Sounds like our Luca.  
  
Perhaps it was this remark or some other that led to the drawing of swords. Not there on the piss-stained corner, of course, but on that thin strip of green crushed between the ancient Castello d’Altafronte and the Arno, the ground that is known as Piccola Cintura, the little belt. By that time, they had exchanged names, and the way the man had thrown out his own, with another insinuating stare, made the blood sing hot in Luca’s veins: _Elia. Me, I’m Elia._

|  | 

**whoa hey _[crossed out]_ this is getting saucy ******  
  
They saluted one another with flourishes, Luca with his usual perfunctory twist and bow and Elia with a curiously fluid motion that turned the line of his foil into an arc of silver. Then Elia leaned back and indicated with a lazy curl of his hand that he was at Luca’s disposal.

|  |   
  
Luca hesitated, for the shadows of the Castello d’Altafronte were growing long, and he knew that the night would be moonless, and he did not wish to fight blind.

|  |   
  
But Elia laughed softly and said, “What, are you afraid of the dark?”

|  |   
  
“Not afraid,” Luca replied as he lunged, but his words were lost in the bright clash of their blades. Almost at once, Luca knew he was dealing with a master, as Elia batted his blade away like a cat at play and evaded the next viperous flick of his foil with all the calm of a man stepping out for an evening stroll. Thusly they circled each other, offering a few testing jabs, a tap here, a tap there. The strikes were gentle and easy. But every time Luca came close to a touch, Elia would disengage and dance away.

|  |   
  
Elia was, Luca admitted, considerably taller, and his arms beneath the cloak were long. Luca could not reach him. So he twitched his blade and nodded his head— _come at me_ —but Elia would not be drawn.

|  |   
  
_Who is afraid,_ Luca thought to himself, as Elia sprang away from his point for what seemed the twentieth time, but he knew that he could not accuse his opponent of cowardice. Over the rush of the river, a different sort of burbling was filling his ears: laughter. Elia was chuckling to himself; his eyes above his cloak were narrow with amusement.

|  | 

**is he a demon??**  
  
No, not a coward, Luca thought, but a madman, perhaps; a madman, yes, and he jolted and swore as, still chuckling, Elia attacked, with a lunge that would have speared Luca’s wrist clean through had he been a moment slower in defending.

|  |   
  
Before Luca could recover, Elia threw himself forward again; his point was angled this time at Luca’s leading foot. A wild movement, a suicidal movement: it left the whole of his back exposed. With a startled inhalation, Luca jerked his foot back and swung down at his opponent, at the bent, muffled face; his foil flashed, and he saw a lock of tawny hair drift into the grass and vanish in shadow.

|  |   
  
At the singing of the blade past his ear, Elia only laughed. Resuming his guard, he asked again, breathless, “Really, you’re not afraid?”

|  |   
  
“Not afraid,” Luca repeated, panting, though he was beginning to be. He felt off balance, bewildered. Far from its usual steady acceleration, his heart was beating wildly out of rhythm. Elia’s eyes were gleaming at him in the fading light, as bright as swordsparks.

|  |   
  
In dueling, Luca has told me—true dueling, that is, and not a match between friends—absolute focus is required. A slip of focus makes room for panic, and once panic with its long, broken fingernails wrests its way past the iron gates of your defenses, it will fling the doors open wide to every fear; you will be cowering in the dirt while your opponent runs you through.

|  | 

God knows why he likes it so much.  
  
At that moment on the bank of the Arno, Luca was not panicking, not quite, but he could feel the clammy press of fear like a second phantom hand hovering over his knuckles; in another moment, he would begin to tremble.

|  |   
  
He had tried all his tricks and watched Elia flow around them like water, and indeed there was something about Elia he found unnerving.

|  |   
  
It was how he moved beneath that heavy cloak of his, as though the cloak were no obstacle at all, while Luca sweated and struggled within the confines of his jerkin. It was as though Luca were fighting a spirit, not a man; if Elia had, with a sigh, melted into the Arno and disappeared, Luca would have said to himself, _ah, of course, now things make sense again._

|  |   
  
Courageously, he rallied himself, and this time, with a feint, he thrust himself forward; he broke through Elia’s guard and trod firmly upon an edge of the brown cloak, and up he slashed, crying out, “Now let us see what lies beneath—I am sure it is the pits of fashion!”

|  | 

**yesss get him Luca!!!**  
  
Like a jester, Elia tumbled backward over the grass, shedding his cloak as he went. For a frozen moment, Luca stared after him, thinking he had struck true and spilled heart’s blood, but no, the crimson fountain at the center of Elia’s chest was merely the incarnadine red of his doublet, visible now through the gaping sword-cut across the front of a plain black jerkin—visible only for a moment before the last drops of sunlight slipped behind the hills and the world sank into night.

|  |   
  
Luca retrieved the brown cloak—it was perfumed faintly with musk—and lashed it at his opponent, following close behind. Elia ducked each swipe of his blade; on the third thrust, he parried, and used the opportunity to tear the cloak from Luca’s hand. Shouting, Luca swung at him again, but he had already retreated beyond reach.

|  |   
  
Tall and slender, red and black, Elia bounced on his feet; he was in shadow beneath the boughs of the trees, and Luca could not see his expression.

|  |   
  
But he could hear his voice, bright and clear. “You’re surprising,” it said. “I like people who surprise me.”

|  |   
  
Lightning struck.

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!!  
  
With a peal the heavens released their burden: a great torrent the likes of which the city had not seen in many weeks. Within moments, Piccola Cintura was saturated, the Arno swelled in its banks, and the fine clear blue of Luca’s ruffled doublet darkened and began to stick to his chemise.

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I commend you, _**[crossed out]**_ , you've really created an atmosphere here, you've outdone yourself.  
  
Again Luca hesitated, and again Elia taunted him. “Are you then afraid of the rain?”

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**oh the bastard!**  
  
“No,” Luca said, but this time he was tentative in his approach; he advanced over the sodden ground, his blade before him and his other hand outstretched, too, as though to grapple. He longed to throw himself on his opponent, but in the rain and the darkness, he held himself in check and moved slowly.

|  |   
  
“And then?” Yann demanded, for here Luca paused in his account and took a long draught of his wine, draining the glass to its dregs. “What then? Did you pierce him through the heart, Luca? After all, you’re sitting here before me unharmed, and I have seen no arrogant young blade parading about the city in a worn brown cloak.”

|  |   
  
No, in fact, Luca admitted, wiping at his mouth. For before his point could find its target, the guards of the duke dwelling then in the new palazzo d’Altafronte had rushed forth with lanterns and cudgels swinging, demanding to know the names of the villains who were disturbing the peace, and Luca and his adversary turned from one another and ran in opposite directions, and his last glimpse of _Elia, I’m Elia_ , was of a fanged shadow fleeing along the bank.

|  | 

A fanged shadow? What does that mean?

Swords are like fangs, aren't they?  
  
“But I will find him again,” Luca vowed. “I swear this to you, Yann. And I will finish what was begun.”

|  |   
  
He then related, with something of his usual humor, how he had returned to his apartments in an alley adjacent to Via di Calimala, that is, the street of the cloth-merchants’ guild, leaving a trail of puddles in his wake and with the rain soaking into the very marrow of his bones. Later, much later, he would confess how he had really arrived: with dazed, dragging steps and a face upturned to the heavens, his movements so ponderous and distracted that Manon, who had been sitting up late eating saffron and rose water _fritelles_ and devising a new style of hat, smiled and murmured that he must have fallen in love.

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**_[doodle of a hat with an ostrich feather]_**  
  
“In love?” Mikael, the flamboyant troubadour who shared their lodgings, had exclaimed. He had been sitting up, too, entertaining himself and Manon with his lute. “No, not in love: in the river! Look at the state of him.” But all the same he played the first few bars of a popular love song. “Come, little cat, change your clothes before you catch a chill.”

|  | 

**_[doodle of a cat]_**  
  
I shall say a word about these living arrangements now, for perhaps you will be looking askance at so many unwed people sharing such close quarters. Manon, as it was known, was in fact wed; she had taken a husband in her own country, a hotheaded mercenary by the name of Charles, with whom—it was also known—Luca had once engaged in fisticuffs, and who had departed Florence after the siege and the War of the League of Cognac, following the armies of Francis the Nose; it was thought that he now resided in the godless kingdom of England, and good riddance to him.

|  | 

**_[doodle of nose]_**

Good riddance indeed.  
  
So the apartments were in Manon’s name, or rather the name of Signora Munier, and the others were, on paper, merely boarders. Luca was the sole occupant of noble blood, but his presence in the apartments was kept secret, and indeed there was no bed for him within the house, only a divan on which he slept on those nights when a nocturnal return to the House of Tedesco would have drawn the ire of his father—though truth be told, the number of such nights had greatly increased of late, and Luca now paid to Manon a monthly sum for the keeping of this divan and the use of her stove.

|  |   
  
There was a fourth who lived in these apartments, a sullen young woman by the name of Lisa, but as she was not present on this evening, nor indeed on very many of the others—and when she happened to be underfoot, she was singularly unobservant, uncooperative, and in fact rather hostile to your humble narrator as he attempted to piece together the events of this story—I will exclude her from my tale.

|  |   
  
Solemnly, Luca did as he was bidden and stripped himself of his wet outer garments; silently, he joined Manon and Mika by the fire and gnawed at a _fritelle_ ; somberly, he laid himself down upon the divan.

|  | 

I could do with a fritelle right about now.  
  
He opened himself to the embrace of sleep, but sleep did not come easily. He was haunted by thoughts of the duel truncated, of the slippery grass of Piccola Cintura, which had betrayed his feet, of the guards who had come running, lanterns a-clatter, and of the deep crimson of Elia’s doublet, which had so shocked him with its color.

|  |   
  
In recalling the doublet, he thought also about the body of his opponent, which had been revealed to be long and lithe and alive with grace. Truly, Luca thought, it was an almost dishonorable deception to hide such a body beneath a cloak so misshapen and clumsy. He wished for a moment that he had thrown the cloak into the river after taking it: it would have been a favor to Elia and to all Elia’s future opponents, among whose numbers he counted himself, first and foremost. They would, he vowed once more, quietly to himself, making fists of both hands as he lay sprawled on the divan, meet again.

|  |   
  
When at last sleep claimed him, no doubt Luca dreamed of icy blue eyes, gazing at him across the rising waters of the Arno.

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WHAT  
  
~*~

|  |   
  
I dreamt of NOTHING but SWORDPLAY

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**SwOrDpLaY!!!**  
  
Swordplay, is that what they're calling it these days?

**a nice heavy broadsword for instance**

Perhaps a lance?

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DIE, all of you, just DIE  
  
**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If you liked this chapter, please [reblog](https://hallo-catfish.tumblr.com/post/186433019479/firenze-1534-chapter-1-zetaophiuchi)!

**Author's Note:**

> WIP. Check back every other Saturday for updates, subscribe to the story, or find me on tumblr!
> 
> <https://hallo-catfish.tumblr.com/tagged/renaissance-au>


End file.
